Talk is rhythm and your silences are carefully measured, working like punctuation among stream upon stream of words. I have an excellent memory and although it sounds self-gratifying I assure you it is anything but. I remember almost everything worth remembering with the utmost clarity, re-feeling layer by layer until it takes a vivid form. But I wish I didn't. Memory is a creative process and I often wonder if I am truly remembering or if I'm simply creating from a template of stored images. I'd grow really excited and ask: Do you remember when? and then stop because I know you don't. You'd look at me funny, grin a little perhaps and then rub the spaces in between my knuckles.
Do you remember the first time feeling _______? Scary isn't it? Terrifying and exhilarating at the exact same point. It gave me such a rush but I felt like throwing up after. So where did all of that go? Dormancy soon gives way to decay. I would stay up at night wondering how you felt, tracing the watermarks on my ceiling. Hyperventilating in naivety and optimism. I would think until I fell asleep and when I woke up I would think some more.
You were a dream but I couldn't sleep much longer.
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